


Five Summers

by Nepthys



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Holidays, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 04:36:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nepthys/pseuds/Nepthys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five summers in the life of Gene Hunt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Summers

  
_1939 – Halton Gill._

He’s never been away from his mam and dad before. But Stu is with him, so it’s not like he’s on his own. And the people they are staying with – Mr and Mrs. Grayling - are all right, even if they talk a bit funny and expect him and Stu to do chores around the farm.

The farm. That turns out to be bloody brilliant. The smell is a bit hard to get used to, but once he’s mucked-out the pigsty a couple of times he doesn’t really notice it anymore. And he gets to feed the chickens and collect their eggs. He gives them names, not understanding until much later why Mr. and Mrs. Grayling never did.

And it’s only much later, when the summer draws to a close and he finds himself at a new school full to bursting with other kids with strange accents and wide eyes, that he remembers that this isn’t a holiday at all.

 

_1955 – Blackpool._

It’s only a bed and breakfast, but it feels like the Ritz.

They arrive in Gene’s new car – well, the car isn’t new, and it isn’t strictly speaking his, but his uncle was happy to lend it to them as a wedding present - so they arrive in style, Gene having pulled-over and removed the string of tin cans before they left Manchester. He opens the door for Vera, seeing her beam at him as he offers her his arm, and he feels ten feet tall.

Blackpool has never seemed so exotic and full of promise; like another country; like a new beginning.

 

_1973 – Harrogate._

Gene lights up another cigarette and exhales heavily.

He wonders what on earth Vera and her mother are doing. They’ve been off shopping, leaving him sitting here for bloody ages, and despite being long-acquainted with Vera’s ability to spend endless hours wandering around shops he seriously doubts that there are  _that_  many shops in the whole bloody town.

He pours himself another cup of Bettys tea – at least it’s a decent cuppa – and gazes out of the window at the grand old buildings, the neat pavements and respectable-looking passersby. It’s all very picturesque, like a postcard come to life, but Gene finds himself itching to scratch beneath the polished surface, to expose the seedy underbelly that all towns have, however well they hide them.

He wonders what Tyler is doing, and whether he managed to solve the Hailsham case – did he think to interview the father? Gene catches himself and snorts at his own folly. It’s Tyler.  _Of course_  he’ll have interviewed the father. Probably have interviewed the entire extended family, their neighbours, their childhood friends - even their ruddy pets, knowing him and his pernickety ways. Bloody Tyler. Gene snorts again, but there’s more humour in it this time.

No doubt Sam will be having a cracking time, ruling the roost in Gene’s absence. Gene can just see him, striding about, insisting on completed paperwork and daily briefings. God, the team are going to be glad to see Gene back on Monday – almost as glad as he’ll be to see them.

And glad to see Sam – if only to take the piss about whatever health and efficiency policies or other such bollocks he’s introduced in Gene’s absence.

He smiles as he drains his tea, not noticing Vera and her mother returning, laden with shopping bags.

 

_1974 – Manchester._

He folds the cardboard flaps, securing the top of the box as best he can, and then steps back to survey the room. He blinks, realising that it’s gone dark, and reaches for the light-switch. He’s not finished yet, but he feels stiff and grimy, his eyes gritty with dust.

Maybe he’ll call it a night for now. After all, he doesn’t have to be out until the end of the week.

Maybe he’ll pour himself a large scotch and pop out to the fish and chip shop.

Or maybe he’ll just pour himself a large scotch. And follow it up with another large scotch, just in case the first one gets lonely.

He’s weighing up how hungry he is, and wondering if the stale bread in the kitchen cupboard would be all right for toast if he scrapes the green bits off it, when the front door bell rings.

Gene freezes. No-one knows he’s at home – well, except Vera, but she’s made it very clear that he’s the last person she wants to see. He’s told the team that he’s off down south for the week visiting some cousins, and he can’t think of anyone else who is likely to be knocking on his door at this time of the evening. For a long moment, Gene considers not answering it, then he realises that not only is the sitting room light clearly on, but the Cortina is parked outside so he’s probably not fooling anyone. He reaches the front door just as the bell rings again, and flings it open.

Tyler.

He might have known. If anyone was going to poke their nose in and come sniffing round when they’d been expressly told that Gene would be away, it would be bloody Sam Tyler.

The choice words which rise to Gene’s lips are forestalled as Sam holds up a bottle of Teachers in one hand and a packet of Garibaldis in the other, so Gene simply raises an enquiring eyebrow and Sam gives a small, apologetic shrug.

“Your solicitor rang the office.”

Gene gives a heavy sigh, letting his chin drop to his chest. He feels a brief but firm pressure on his shoulder, gone almost before he can appreciate the gesture, and he steps to one side to let Sam enter.

He pours them both a shot of Teachers as Sam glances around, clearly reading the situation.  
Sam takes the offered glass, seating himself on the edge of the sofa.

“What are you going to do?” he asks, finally.

“Run off and join the circus.”

“Seriously.”

“Sell this place, for a start.” Gene gestures vaguely around with his glass. “Got to give Vera her fair share, apparently. And I have to move out, anyway.”

“Have you got somewhere to stay?”

“I’ve got something in the works.”

Sam peers at him with unnerving intensity. “Does this ‘something’ involve kipping in the Cortina, by any chance?”

“No.” Gene says, looking away. It’s only half a lie. He has a plan to find a bedsit or a small flat somewhere, it’s just that it hasn’t been put into action yet.

Sam watches him for a moment longer before downing his drink and banging his glass down on the coffee table with a note of finality. “Right. Come on, then. You’re coming to stay with me – at least until you find something better.”

Gene fixes him with a searching stare of his own. Sam has a decent little house these days, and although the spare bedroom is a bit on the small side if Gene’s memory serves, it would be better than anything else he can think of right now. Sam returns his gaze steadily, his mind clearly made up, and for once Gene decides not to argue.

“All right, then. Thanks.” He swallows the last of his drink and they both get to their feet.

“So, is all this yours?” Sam gestures to the small pile of boxes by the living room door.

It is. At least, Gene thought it was when he packed it. But now he looks at the sad collection – a few records (Roger Whittaker and Herb Alpert), Reader's Digest and some other books he can’t remember ever having opened, a stack of yellowing old bank papers, bundles of photographs from God-knows-when – and he thinks it’s not much to show for nineteen years of marriage.

Slowly, he shakes his head. “Nah. I don’t want any of it. Bugger it.” He turns abruptly, leaving Sam, nonplussed, in his wake, and heads upstairs, returning after a few moments with a battered old suitcase and a black bin bag which is bulging at the seams.

“Right, Sammy-boy. Let’s away.”

“What - that’s it?”

“Yeah. No- hang on.” On second thoughts, Gene thrusts the bag into Sam’s arms and reaches for a cut-glass decanter from the side-board.

“Sentimental value?” Sam asks as Gene ushers him from the house, closing the front door behind them.

“Single malt. Decent one, at that. Might let you have a snifter – seeing as you’re my new housemate.”

“ _Landlord_ , I think you’ll find.” Sam mutters, balancing the bag carefully as he negotiates his way to the car.

Gene watches him, allowing himself a grin. Living with Tyler is likely to be the death of them both, but at least it will be an interesting way to go.

He takes a moment to weigh the house keys in his hand, taking a deep breath of the night air before posting them through the letterbox.

 

_1975 – Lake Ullswater._

It’s still hot although the sun has sunk low in the sky, and Gene wiggles his fishing rod experimentally, more for effect than because he thinks he may have actually caught anything.

“Still no luck?”

He glances over at Sam, who is lounging in the front (or is it the back?) of the boat in his swimming trunks, legs dangling over the side. Gene eyes him pointedly.

“Oh, I don’t know.”

Sam just grins and plucks the last bottle of beer from the cool box in the bottom of the boat, opens it and up-ends it, long throat bared.

Gene watches for a moment, transfixed, before interrupting.

“’Ere – don’t scoff it all!”

Sam hands it over, looking altogether smug.

“Ready to head back?”

Gene takes a long swig and nods.

“Hungry?” Sam asks.

“I could eat a scabby dog.”

“Hmm. Don’t think scabby dog is on the menu tonight.”

“What is, then?” Gene reels in his line, packing away the fishing rod. Pointless pastime, really, but then bobbing around for a few hours with some beer and a having a nice doze in the sun was a surprisingly good way to spend the day, as it turned out.

“Well, either I can knock together a chilli con carne back at the cottage, or we can go back to the local pub.”

“You do a good chilli-”

“-but if I cook, then you wash-up.”

Gene turns to him, aghast. “I’m on my holidays!”

“Pub it is, then.” Sam flicks water at him and Gene scowls, although his heart isn’t really in it.

“Right, then Tyler. All hands to the oars.” Gene leans back, relaxing against the prow, long legs stretched as far as the rather small boat will allow.

“Oh no. I rowed us out here. Your turn to row back.” Sam pauses, looking suddenly concerned. “Unless you’re too tired? In which case, I think it will have to be a mug of Horlicks and an early night for you while  _I_  pop down the pub...”

Gene sits up and grasps the oars, pushing Sam out of the way. Honestly, it’s been less than a year and Sam has managed to get under his skin in a way that Vera never did.

Bloody Tyler and his annoying smirk.

Gene sets up a steady, if leisurely, rhythm; being careful to catch the water every now and again at just the right angle to splash Sam - the smug git - just to remind him who’s boss.

And if their progress across the lake is slowed as they pass the bottle of beer back and forth, and if Sam yells when the cold water hits his skin and Gene laughs, not caring if he, too, gets soaked...well. It hardly matters.

They are on holiday, after all.

 

 

END  



End file.
